


The Ripper and The Reaper

by autumnlouise



Series: You Do Count: Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2018 [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlock and Molly Solve Crimes, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherlolly Appreciation Week, The Abominable Bride, Victorian Sherlolly, victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 23:17:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13914276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnlouise/pseuds/autumnlouise
Summary: With the help of Molly, Sherlock attempts to track down the notorious Jack the Ripper in Victorian London. (Sherlolly Appreciation Week Day 4: The Abominable Bride)





	The Ripper and The Reaper

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlolly Appreciation Week– Day 4 – The Abominable Bride
> 
> This is my first time trying my hand at Victorian Sherlolly- and this one shot was not beta read- so any anachronisms and errors in Briticisms are purely my own.

“Are you sure about this?” Sherlock Holmes asked her, for what must have been the hundredth time in the past half hour.

Sighing, Molly Hooper leaned her head against the wall of the cab and closed her eyes. “Yes, Mister Holmes. Did you truly think my response would change since the other thirteen times you’ve asked?”

The detective sitting across from her in the horse-drawn buggy adjusted the pipe in his mouth and frowned. “I merely want to ensure that you knew what you were getting into. It is going to be quite… demanding.”

She forced a smile. “No need to worry. I am perfectly aware.” Oh, yes, she knew what she was getting into, and it was a lot . More than most women of her station could have handled. But Molly Hooper was not most women, in all meanings of the term, and she would not back down from a challenge such as this.

But apparently more than a dozen insistent yes -es were not enough for the great Sherlock Holmes to accept the help of a woman.“Watson could do it.” Holmes reasoned. Molly couldn’t hold back an awkward laugh– half giggle, half snort– at that. Her cheeks turned red but she brushed off the sound with a roll of her eyes.

“Watson,” she pointed out, straightening her skirt, “Unlike myself, is not in the habit of cross-dressing.”

The look on Holmes’ face betrayed him– once again, he had forgotten that she was not just Miss Hooper, his friend, but also Hooper the pathologist from Barts. It was like they were two different people in his eyes; Molly constantly found herself falling victim to his stereotypes of the fairer sex when she spent time with him in her natural state. When she wore a petticoat and skirts instead of Hooper’s uniform, he was suddenly protective, unnecessarily gentle, and did his best to ensure she would have no part in whatever work was going on.

She wanted to change that. Badly.

“It would be dark. Whether he was a man or a particularly bulky lady, no one would be able to tell.” he said nonchalantly through his pipe. A flash of resentment hit her. Molly wanted to slap him and knock that awful pipe out of his mouth. The ease with which he brushed her aside made her blood boil. She had asked for this job, and damn it, she wasn’t going to let Sherlock Holmes take this from her.

She had tried and failed several times over the past weeks to assist him where she could; she was fascinated by his methods of deduction, the scientific advances he was studying. She wanted to know more ... and perhaps to add a few missing pieces to some of his hypotheses, too. So she offered herself up as an assistant in lab experiments at the morgue or his flat, and on cases that stumbled into her neck of London. All but one time he had brushed her off, saying that Watson would be better suited for the task. The only reason he had accepted her offer of assistance this time was because he explicitly needed something Watson could not provide: feminine seduction.

The only thing shared by all the victims of the notorious Jack the Ripper.

“A lady with a moustache?” Molly wrinkled her nose. She didn’t think that the Ripper would be very interested in a more masculine looking target. All of the victims thus far had been young, pretty, and… prostitutes. Hence the express need for a woman, and the gaudy makeup and over-the-top red and black dress she was donning for the occasion.

He sighed. “I suppose that could present an issue. Mary could do it, then.”

Molly snapped. Why did he think her to be so unfit for anything outside the home? Did he take her for a coward? A spineless, whining spinster? “Enough! I am just as capable as Mary Watson, Mister Holmes, and you know that! Unless you are trying to insult my intelligence and skill set, I would refrain from speaking any further on the matter, if I were you.” she crossed her arms over her chest and stubbornly turned away from him. Why did he have to fight her so thoroughly on this? They were almost in Whitechapel, anyways. There was no point to arguing her participation anymore beyond just to make her angry. “I am perfectly fine with doing this. I want to help in any way I can.”

“You are completely certain?” He pressed, eyes wide with… concern? Condescension? Molly fought the urge to shout at him again and took a calming breath.

“Yes. I offered , Mister Holmes. And it’s not as if I’ll be alone. You’ll be just behind me.”

Holmes looked as though he were about to say something in response, but before he could speak, the cab came to a stop. A moment later, the driver opened the door, announcing that they had arrived.

“Have a good evening, Mister Holmes,” the driver said, tipping his hat to the detective as he descended from the cab. Holmes turned to help Molly down as etiquette dictated, but she ignored his obviously-placed hand and marched past him without a second glance. The driver looked at the two of them warily before he drove away, perhaps not wanting to interfere in a domestic affair between lovers, friends… whatever they were. Frankly, she did not know herself.

“Miss Hooper, wait–” Holmes called, jogging to catch up to her. Molly slowed to let him walk by her side, but did not turn to look at him.

“ Doctor Hooper.” she corrected icily. “Where are we, exactly?”

She reluctantly allowed the detective to loop his arm through hers. “Goulston Street in Whitechapel. The Baker Street Irregulars have been monitoring the area and they recognized a pattern in our friend the Ripper’s travels. He should be here around midnight tonight, which is where we shall make his acquaintance. Well, I rephrase: you will be making his acquaintance, much to my chagrin. I will be introducing him to Scotland Yard.”

“Which I am assisting you with.”

Holmes nodded, glancing around the dark, empty street as if looking for something.

“Pray tell, would you please explain the intricacies of this plan to me, seeing as I am the one who will be acting as bait?” All she had been told about the case was that the two of them would be spending an evening in Whitechapel, hunting down the mysterious Jack the Ripper, and that she would be the lure to bring him out of hiding. The whole thing made her a bit nervous, if she were being honest– but she would never admit that to Holmes. Not after the fuss he’d made about giving her the job.

“Bit more of a ‘red herring’ than bait .” Holmes murmured, but continued on before Molly had time to say anything in response. “But there is an abandoned store very close to the bar our friend frequents. The two of us will wait– I myself will be hidden– and once the Ripper approaches you, I will–”

“Save the day?” Molly interrupted, cutting short the monologue of his heroics. The detective frowned, but nodded. He looked a bit miffed at having his ego ruffled.

Holmes pulled her a little closer to him as they strolled further down the street. “In so many words, yes.” The buildings around them were a mixture of bars, filled to the brim with late-night patrons, and crumbling tenements, shops, and apartments. The sight of this place at night made shivers run up Molly’s spine. She was a bit grateful for Holmes’ closeness in that moment. “Here we are,” he murmured, more to himself than Molly as he guided the two of them to a boarded-up storefront. Rows of wooden planks were nailed behind the windows, meaning that the glass only reflected back an image of the beholder. Molly, with her hair pinned in an updo, face painted with layers of makeup, and clothed in a gaudy dress, looked absolutely nothing like herself.

It was all quite unnerving. Arriving there, at the scene of the future crime, was starting to make Molly nervous. She could feel her palms starting to sweat underneath her gloves, and she gulped.

She wasn’t going to give this up– there was no way. She was going to show Sherlock Holmes that she was more than just a gentle woman. It would be slightly terrifying, but she would meet Jack the Ripper that night if it was the last thing she did.

Perhaps that word choice was not the best, on second thought. Consumed with sudden jitters, her teeth began to chatter.

Holmes looked down at her curiously, perhaps detecting her fear.. “You’re awfully quiet, Miss Hooper.” The true question was unspoken– are you sure about this?

“Could say the same of yourself.” She said through clenched teeth. And the obstinacy with which she was trying not to shiver was her response.

The detective drew a calming arm around her shoulders. For a few minutes, the two of them stood against the side of the storefront. Molly leaned into his warm coat when the chilled London air breezed past them. Holmes pulled her a bit closer, protecting her from the wind, but said nothing. Every so often, he checked his pocket watch.

At around ten till midnight, he pulled away from her.

“Any minute now.” He said, glancing up and down the street almost impatiently. “You’re ready, Miss Hooper?”

Molly nodded, turning to look in the window and adjust her hair. Did she look appealing enough? Had she used too much makeup, or not enough? She fleetingly wondered if Holmes had noticed the kohl on her eyes, the rouge of her lips– “As ready as I’ll ever be.” she murmured, pushing those thoughts out of her mind.

And with nothing more than a nod, Holmes seemed to disappear into the darkness. Suddenly, Molly was completely and utterly alone… or so it seemed. In reality, the detective was just behind the front door of the abandoned shop, just as they’d discussed. But he was hidden so well that it was impossible for Molly to feel anything but vulnerable and exposed against the vast curtain of night.

Molly leaned against the grimy glass window of the old store and took a deep breath. This was going to be the most dangerous, foolish thing she had ever done… but there was no way she was going to back down now. She was more than just a woman of society– she was a doctor, one who was instrumental to the successes of Scotland Yard, at that. She could take a little fear.

At least, she thought with a gulp as she shadows of the street began to close in around her, she certainly hoped so...

* * *

 Just behind the door, Sherlock Holmes was crouched, peering outside through a crack scarcely wider than his little finger. He could just see the edge of Molly’s dress as she leaned against the old storefront, trying to make herself look… appealing. Something in the pit of his stomach lurched. It was still only five minutes to midnight– the Ripper had a fondness for drink, he might not appear until quarter after or even later– yet his heart was hammering in his chest as though he were already miles deep into the chase.

It was only five minutes to midnight, and already he was cursing himself for letting Miss Hooper take this job. Because everything about her was so utterly distracting . The inquisition in her eyes when she worked at the morgue or watched his experiments; the way she held herself, tall and proud, as though a dress were a suit of armor; and even the way she’d talked to him in the cab, desperate to prove herself...

“Stop it.” he hissed, reaching down to pinch the tender skin of his wrist and bring himself back to reality. He needed to be focusing on the case at hand right now, on Jack the Ripper and the Whitechapel murders… not of the way the moonlight highlighted the lighter streaks in Miss Hooper’s hair, or other such trivial matters...

Footsteps. On the sidewalk. Sherlock’s eyes darted back to the minimal opening in the doorway, immediately on high alert. In a moment, his mind was clear, dialed in on the sound with razor-sharp focus. The steps were heavy and leisurely, despite the hour and the chill in the air– no doubt those of an intoxicated man.

Those of the notorious Jack the Ripper.

The man whistled as he walked. He was unable to keep a straight path and periodically swayed from one side of the sidewalk to the other; Molly noticed this at the same time as Sherlock, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her flinch. As the Ripper came closer, he seemed to stare straight through Molly for a moment. But then, as if his vision had just come into focus, his face lit up at the sight of her.

He lurched forward, halting a few paces from where Molly was standing under the protective awning of the storefront. “Well, what do we have here?” the Ripper leered, his voice slurred with alcohol. He paused, leaning one hand against the wall as his eyes moved up and down to gaze at Molly’s… everything. He was certainly taking his time. They dragged up her waist, her torso, to her face so… agonizingly… slowly… “What’s a lady like you doin’ out so late?”

Sherlock’s blood ran molten hot in his veins. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep from throwing himself between the Ripper and Molly. But one move now, and everything would be over; he had to wait just a few moments longer, for the man to wander closer so the jaws of the trap could snap shut upon him…

Molly straightened, putting one fisted hand behind her back to hide that it was trembling. Her normally sweet, gentle voice suddenly warped into a biting Cockney accent. “Waitin’ for a gentleman like you, sir.”

“Mmm, I appreciate that.” he sighed, reaching to caress her face. Sherlock saw Molly flinch as the man’s dirty hands, greasy with layers of invisible blood and all-too-visible sticky alcohol residue, came into contact with her skin. He was clenching his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might snap. Just another moment more, and then she would be out of harm’s way… “How’s about we go for a little walk, miss?”

Miss Hooper offered her free arm to link with his. “Why, that’d be lovely, sir.”

The Ripper moved an inch closer, reaching for Molly with one hand. In his other, he was clutching something ominously sharp and glinting in the light of the moon… Just one more second, half, a quarter… every muscle in his body was tensed, ready to spring.

Now!

Sherlock exploded out from behind the door, throwing himself towards the Ripper before he could touch Molly again. Both of them fell to the ground, landing on the pavement with an ugly-sounding crack coming from his opponent’s shoulder. The blade, which had been loose in the drunkard’s grip, went clattering towards the gutter as they fell. Sherlock had the advantage now. Both were weaponless, but Sherlock was sober, and his wit was sharp as any knife.

Unluckily for him, it did not block the well-placed punch that the Ripper managed to land on his face. They were a maelstrom of adrenaline, punching hands, kicking feet. Sherlock aimed for the the places he knew would stun and incapacitate– the nose, the temples, the core– but the fight was too fast for the precise calculations he was used to making before his punches. He let a fist swing, aiming for the wounded shoulder. But the Ripper grabbed his wrist before he could make contact, twisting the joint in a way that was entirely unnatural and that made him scream out in pain.

Suddenly he was the one on the ground, pinned underneath the Ripper’s drunk, bloodthirsty gaze. The man could fight, that was certain. Sherlock hadn’t accounted for an opponent this advanced. What was he to do? How was he going to get out of this one? His mind was whirling as the Ripper reached for his throat, eager to snap Holmes in two… his heart roared in his chest. The Ripper was going to get away. His one chance had slipped. And this idiotic plan had put Molly in danger...

“Hey!” a shrill, feminine scream made both men freeze. The Ripper, in his drunken stupor, glanced up to find the source of the cry.

This was his undoing. Because Molly Hooper took that moment to throw herself at him, knocking him to the ground with the force of a bullet and a well-aimed knee below the belt. Before the man could even scramble to fight back, Molly had the same knife he’d been holding earlier pressed against his throat.

Panting, she angled the blade towards an artery. “I would strongly advise against trying to escape,” she growled, “Because I am a pathologist, you see. I am more closely acquainted with Death than even you, Mister Ripper, and I could so easily make yours look like an accident.” Her voice shook ever-so-slightly, but the cold steadiness with which she held the blade was… well, terrifying. She had the practiced hands of a surgeon.

And in her tattered black dress, hair astray, leaning over the man and holding him within an inch of his life… she looked like an angel of Death. Perhaps even the Reaper herself.

Sherlock could not keep the utter shock from bleeding onto his face.

Underneath her grip, the Ripper struggled. “I’ll kill you,” he snarled, trying in vain to get Molly off of him. “You bitch, I’ll kill you.”

Pulling himself to his knees, Sherlock dragged himself to Molly’s side, trying to help hold the criminal down with his one good hand. “ Don’t speak to her that way.” Sherlock growled, digging the palm of his hand into the Ripper’s injured shoulder. He let out a cry of pain in response.

With his possibly broken hand and Molly’s energy quickly fading, Sherlock worried that Jack the Ripper might escape before Scotland Yard could arrive. But, as it turned out, one of the Baker Street Irregulars had seen the whole fight go down and had gone to fetch Lestrade and the others earlier than previously planned. When the officers finally took the murderer into custody, both of them fell back against the wall of the store, exhausted.

Sherlock had no words for what had just happened. Looking over at Molly, a mixture of respect, pride, and the remnants of terror bubbled in his chest. “That was…”

“I did what I had to do.” Molly interrupted, still panting. She shook her head almost sadly. “You cannot fight like a gentleman, Mister Holmes. When you are a lady in a man’s world, you must learn to hit where it hurts.”

* * *

Several days later, the news of Jack the Ripper’s arrest was plastered on the front of every newspaper along with illustrations of the faces of Sherlock Holmes and Miss Molly Hooper. The two of them had been hailed as the newest heroes of London; in the wake of this, cases were coming to Baker Street faster than Holmes and Watson could solve them. For the first time in a long while, they had a queue waiting outside Baker Street from morning to night. Sherlock was constantly running about, sometimes solving multiple cases in a day. John tagged along when he could, but most of his time was spent at his practice or at home with Mary and the baby. Things returned to normal. Life went on just as it had before– except for one thing.

Molly Hooper.

The pathologist was just what was on his mind that morning as he pulled on his overcoat. He had a busy day of consulting ahead– a triple murder case from Scotland Yard and a bank robbery his brother requested he investigate. Watson had come over to Baker Street for breakfast and was seated at his typewriter, dutifully pecking out the story of perhaps Holmes’ greatest adventure yet. He was engrossed, completely immersed in another world, and did not notice that Sherlock was preparing to depart.

“Watson,” he said loudly, “I’m going out.”

His friend looked up from the manuscript with furrowed brows. “Where?”

“On a case.” Sherlock responded nonchalantly.

His frown only deepened at this. “Don’t you- don’t you want my company?” Holmes had been badgering for Watson to assist him with the cases for the past several days. It surely seemed strange to John that he should stop now, when their workload was at its heaviest; but recent circumstances had left Sherlock without the constant need for John’s presence.

Just before he could respond, the doorbell rang a floor below. His lips twitched into a smile. A moment later, a cheery-looking Molly Hooper ascended the steps to their humble apartment.

When she came to the doorway, Sherlock crossed the room to meet her, admiring the earth-green dress she’d chosen for the day and how it brought out the beauty of her brown eyes. Smirking, he looked to his friend and said, “Seeing as you are otherwise occupied, I will be investigating with Doctor Hooper today.”

And he could have sworn John Watson’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as Sherlock put his arm around Molly’s waist and kissed her on the cheek.

There had been much to discuss after the Ripper case: why Sherlock had been so hesitant to let her aide him in his endeavors, why Molly had been so resentful… all of this had resulted in both of them admitting to certain feelings– feelings that were better suited to a pair of lovers than colleagues.

So they’d become just that.

John’s voice seemed to die in his throat. “But…” he stuttered, blinking rapidly in surprise, “But she’s…”

“A woman?” Molly supplied helpfully, unable to keep a grin off of her face.

“If you are insinuating that my fiancée is lesser than yourself because she is female,” Sherlock sighed, irritated at his friend’s prejudice when it came to the fairer sex, “Let me bring to your attention that two of your biggest stories– the Ripper case and The Abominable Bride– have both been solved by women, one of them being your own wife.”

Poor John looked as though he were about to have an aneurysm. “F–fiancée?” He stammered, clearly having ignored the rest of Holmes’ comment after the uttering of that word.

Sherlock and Molly exchanged glances. “It was a quick courtship.”

Holmes pulled a watch out of his pocket and checked the time while John just stared, unable to do anything but gawk. “Well, Doctor Hooper, I think it’s time we ought to be going– there’s a murderer to catch, and I’ll need your assistance.”

Molly nodded. “Yes, I do think we should be off.” she agreed, straightening her coat. “Oh, John, do give Mary our love, won’t you?”

And the two of them set off into the streets of London, going to solve crimes and save the day not as detective and assistant… but as equals at last.


End file.
